


fragmented reflection

by SapphyreLily



Series: skein of light [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Blood Imagery, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, POV Second Person, guild wars 2 au, mesmer!Atsumu, necromancer!Osamu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2019-02-23 13:58:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13191540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphyreLily/pseuds/SapphyreLily
Summary: When illusions are your trade, can you tell reality from a dream?





	fragmented reflection

_Empty, empty, broken promises._

_Empty, empty, broken promises._

_Alone. Alone, once again._

_Has it ever been any different?_

Will _it ever be any different?_

_You don’t know. You don’t know._

_What was the saying? 'Promises were meant to be broken'?_

_You reach out, touch the broken mirror. Touch the clean, shiny surface. Touch the jagged half of your face that shows, mar it with your bloodied fingers._

_The bloody fingers that match the blood matted in your hair. The blood that soaks your fringe, turning it from light to dark. Returning it to its natural state._

_Dark, dark, dark. Nothing will ever be bright again._

_Beyond the dark, what lies but infinite blackness? It makes sense, but does not, and you are confused, muddled in your own mind._

_You look up, look again at your bloodied reflection. At the face that will never again look back at you._

_Because– Because, because, because–_

_Your reflection, it reminds you._

_“Didn’t you once know somebody? Somebody who looks just like me?”_

You jolt awake.

Your heart is beating too fast, and you place a hand over it, pressing down on the skin, feeling the pressure as it pumps heavily, heavily.

You are terrified.

It is _that_ dream again – the same as always, the same, the same. The one where you lose half your soul, the one where you lose the only one who has ever seen you to your core – insecurities, dark secrets and all.

Your brother. Your twin.

You turn on your side, blink into the night – quickly, frantically, impatiently. You need to see, to see for yourself. You lift a hand, a pink trail following your fingers, a pale wisp that illuminates briefly, almost hesitantly.

He sleeps on, your mirror image, hair falling across his face, blankets kicked to the side, tangled in limbs lying haphazardly. A mess, for the lack of a better word.

But still, your heartbeat slows – just a tick, the slightest sliver.

He’s safe. He’s alive.

He’s alive.

But you cannot help yourself, you who have been plagued with terrible visions, the same dream over and over and over–

At this point, you do not know. Is it really a dream? Or is it a glimpse into the future, a foretelling – foresight, as your soul seems to whisper to you?

(Because you are a mesmer, and you know minds. You know how to twist them and let them see what they want to see, show them their deepest desires – their delusions of grandeur.)

(Or their greatest fears.)

And the part of you, that part of you that whispers, that refuses to hide the truth from you behind a pretty illusion– It tells you, oh it _tells you_ –

_Don’t hide from it. You will lose him._

You are so afraid.

But you cannot help yourself, though by now you are full grown – you are an adult, no longer a child who can partake and believe the dark nightmares that always haunt your rest, but yet–

But yet, you slip from your bed, and crawl under the haphazard covers of the bed beside yours, tucking yourself into the crook of the arm you know as well as your own.

For does it not mirror yours? This arm that is made of the same cloth that yours is, for you were born of the same womb, one minutes after the other, and have you not done everything side by side, hand in hand, your whole lives?

Of course you know it as well as your own, for it is almost your own, except for the fact that this hand wields death magic where yours wields illusions.

And yet, just this simple action, just this act of slipping into the bed that is not yours, your head resting on his chest, a corner of the blankets tugged over your shoulders– Just this, it is enough to soothe your troubled soul, to weave an illusion over the nightmare that you do not want to face.

(That you never want to face.)

The warmth of your brother’s body chases away the chill in your bones, and you relax; you listen to the steady beat of his heart, the strong _thump-thump, thump-thump_ – the solidness, of life thrumming through veins and arteries.

You listen, you listen, to the life beating in the body next to yours, chasing away the shroud of death that seems to have cloaked you, following you out of your nightmare and into the world. Chasing away your fear, building a wall to keep that fear out, to keep that prophecy from coming true.

You will not allow it to become true.

Your hands clench in finely woven cotton, heat seeping into your fingers, and force yourself to listen, to listen, to relax. To sleep, dreamless.

(But your mind will not allow you rest, whispering, whispering; voices blending, blending into a roar, into a shout that will not allow itself to go unheard.)

_(It will be by your hand.)_

_(It will be by **your** hand.)_

You do not want to listen, and huddle closer, curl up more tightly, pressing closer, closer, as if it will help combat the darkness and block out the voices that threaten to overwhelm you.

There is a shifting beneath, the arm you were resting against moving, curling inwards, until it is halfway slung about your shoulders. The voices quiet, dulling. As if they know – as if they can feel, as you do, the sanctity of the moment, the warding peace that comes with such an act.

You can breathe again.

It seems like a thousand heartbeats, maybe more – but your brain grows fuzzy, your thoughts dull, and you sink towards a dreamless rest.

And maybe, maybe, you feel another shifting under your head, a heavy warmth encircling you, pulling you firmly into its embrace. Your nose presses into a scent you know well, into a familiar heat, pillowing against the rise and dip of muscular planes that mirror your own. Something comforting, something reassuring – something relaxing. Your fingers uncurl from their death grip, and your mind slips – falling, falling, from the ledge of wakefulness.

You sleep.


End file.
